


Down on Both Knees

by sugarboat



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-20
Updated: 2016-09-20
Packaged: 2018-08-16 04:57:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8088094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugarboat/pseuds/sugarboat
Summary: Djura comes to his fellow hunter, hoping to end his beastdom before it starts.





	

“Well, old friend, you’ve certainly got yourself into a fine mess, haven’t you?” The softly spoken question seemed to, briefly, cut through the blood-crazed haze that Gascoigne was wandering in. The man – still a man, thank the Church – shook his head, his hand drawing up to press fingers to his temples, but soon his lips were curling back in a silent snarl. He sniffed loudly at the air.

“…Djura.” It wasn’t a question, and it was more growled than said, rough and rumbling in his throat like a threat. The hunter stood his ground, shrewd eye regarding his one-time companion. “Thought you’d buried yourself amongst your… _beasts_.” Gascoigne spat out the last word like a particularly vile poison. “You reek of them.”

Djura was hardly cowed by the vehemence, the barely bridled fury that shook in the broad shoulders of his fellow – former – hunter, but he did begin to wonder whether he should have come here. The man before him was already drenched in the blood of beasts, his leathers shining with the viscous red liquid that looked nearly black as the sun slipped below the horizon. Gascoigne, a hunter he had once considered a close friend and stalwart ally, looked nearly ominous in the foggy graveyard Djura had tracked him to. 

It was true, once Djura had learned the secret of the beasts (hardly a secret at all), he had all but withdrawn from the outside world. He could barely the stomach the actions he himself had taken at the behest of the Church, in an effort to quell the tide of beasts that ever rampaged through the streets. Now he served as a solitary guardian, protecting his monsters from the hunters as much as he kept them contained. His disillusion with his superiors, with his brothers-in-arms, with the whole damn city had kept him from venturing forth often. Except…

“I’m impressed you can smell anything over that gore you’re slathered in,” Djura said. He snorted, a jagged smile cutting across his face, and he took a step forward, trying to quell the subtle stirring of unease that was twining itself around his spine. Gascoigne jerked, twisting to face him fully. Was there even a point to it, he wondered, eying the dirty linens wound across both his eyes.

“Nothing could quell that stench, not the blood of a thousand beasts.” Well, that was a bit melodramatic, but try as he might levity was far from Djura’s mind. Gascoigne stalked closer to him, the tip of his axe scraping across the stone ground as he moved. “You’ll all be beasts… every one of you.” Djura barely heard his muttered words, thick with disgust. 

“Aye, perhaps that’s true.” Against all reason and better judgement, against the shrill voice in the back of his mind that had been honed during endless nights, Djura took a step closer as well. His gun was still sheathed but his fingers twitched. “But acting like one of them – uncontrollable, _bloodthirsty_ \- it only quickens the process.”

With speed that belied the imposing hunter’s great size, Gascoigne surged forward, his left fist seizing onto the loose cloth over Djura’s chest and actually lifting the lithe man into the air. Instinctively, Djura’s hands shot to grab onto Gascoigne’s wrist, his fingers digging into the older man’s arm, trying to hold some of his own weight up. 

“Then what does living with the beasts do?” Gascoigne snarled in his face. His teeth were bared in a threat, and Djura could swear he spotted the sharp glinting of fangs between his lips. Perhaps he had been too late after all. The near feral hunter dragged him closer, and flecks of spittle sprayed across his mask with every word. “You’re _diseased_ , Djura – they’ve corrupted you, rotted your mind.”

This had gotten out of hand rather quickly. He had noticed the warning signs, rumors of Gascoigne’s compromised mental state reaching him even in his seclusion. Ever the optimist, Djura had hoped to come to his old friend before he had been completely lost to savagery.

“I’ll end this for you, _old friend_ , yes, yes,” Gascoigne was muttering. Now Djura truly struggled against his iron grip. “A hunter’s death!” 

Djura didn’t wait for the older man to strike, ripping his right arm back from where it had been digging bruises into Gascoigne’s forearm. His fist wrapped instead around the handle of his Stake Driver, attached to his arm as it always was, as much a part of him as his own flesh, and he drove the wicked spike of the weapon forward, jabbing it into his former brother’s gut. Most of the blow was absorbed by the cloaked layers of Gascoigne’s garb, but the hunter grunted all the same, dropping him the few inches back to the ground.

Darting away, Djura had barely put enough space between them to dodge the sweeping arc of Gascoigne’s axe as it bit through the air he had just occupied. The powder keg hunter reached around his back, drawing forth his blunderbuss, single eye burning as he fixed the man with a glare.

“I will put you down if I must, Father,” Djura said. “Do not make me!” There was no answer to his plea – and it was a plea, for sanity and reason – but a wordless growl, followed by a roar as the towering hunter went on the offensive, quickly closing the gap between the two. Djura was forced into dodging endlessly, scrambling to keep his distance. Again and again the crazed hunter attacked, and Djura was soon panting for breath while Gascoigne seemed not even phased, a manic grin stretching his wizened face.

Finally, he spotted an opening, as Gascoigne drew his axe back stupendously, and Djura took the opportunity to fire a shot that had the great man staggering, shaking his head. He dove forward with the Stake Driver in a wide arc, grinning viciously below his mask as he felt the weapon catch against leather and cloth, drive straight through weak flesh and muscle. Blood sprayed in a wide arc and Gascoigne kicked out at him, knocking him away. 

Djura longed for a moment to catch his breath, shifting to take cover behind some leaning and long forgotten tombstones, but Gascoigne was nearly on top of him, had activated his trick weapon so its reach was nearly as long as his body. It slowed the man down, at the very least; for whatever good that did. The hunter was still unnaturally motivated, unfatigued even with blood – his own now – dripping down his side, pattering against the stone and mud ground with every step. 

A curving, downward arc caught Djura finally, as the powder keg hunter became too exhausted to continue his evasive leaps and rolls. He cried out at the sharp, jagged pain radiating from his chest, all the way down in a clean line to his thigh. His legs briefly trembled, but his body moved nearly independent of his thoughts, throwing him backwards to avoid the devastating follow up Gascoigne had already launched into. He landed with a grunt on his back, but he aimed the blunderbuss clearly at his old friend. The part of every man’s brain that screamed with panic begged him to fire, to pull the trigger again and again and hope that it would be enough to put the man down. Djura crushed it ruthlessly. He knew better. His finger quivered on the trigger but he held fast, allowed the man to stalk closer, to pull his weapon back in an attack that was meant to maim him, to snuff the candle of his life out in one final puff.

Well trained as they all had been, Djura’s shot hit true, enough to stagger Gascoigne once more, and he was immediately on his knees, driving the stake deep into the man’s guts once more, between the low points of his ribcage. This time, the force behind the weapon had the spike cutting cleanly through the man’s armor, though the thin flesh of his skin and the denser resistance of his muscle, and finally into the soft, wet coils of his insides. Gascoigne howled, not sounding like a man at all and Djura ripped his weapon away ruthlessly.

There was a deafening clatter as Gascoigne’s shock-numb fingers lost hold of his weapon, his axe clanging noisily onto the stone pathway. Djura shoved the needle of a blood vial into his leg, wincing at the burning, tugging sensation of his skin sluggishly knitting itself together. The fight, as brutal as it may have felt, seemed to be over quickly. Perhaps devolving into a beast was more draining than he’d originally figured. 

Gascoigne suddenly hunched over, his hands going to the gaping wound in his stomach. Djura struggled to his feet, something akin to sympathy in his gaze. Well, assuming Gascoigne didn’t die on the way, he could take him back to Old Yharnam as he’d originally intended – a place to keep him safe, and to keep others safe from him. Thoughts of the future, however, were quick to fade as he watched Gascoigne shake and shudder, and soon his mind was completely blank as an inhuman, earsplitting shriek rang out, a plume of dark smoke suddenly drifting off the old hunter.

What. The fuck.

The figure that emerged was hideously warped, sickeningly elongated arms and legs jutting out from the shredded remains of his vestments. They were covered in the coarse, grey fur that was so characteristic of the beasts of Yharnam, and Djura had no more time to observe as Gascoigne leapt at him, swiping with claws and fangs, roaring like one of the monsters he had sworn to destroy.

If he had thought the man preternaturally energetic before, it was nothing compared to the creature now before him. Gascoigne seemed to need no recovery time between vicious attacks, and though Djura struck out when he could, for every wound he scored across the beast’s flesh Gascoigne’s claws ripped at his own thrice. He couldn’t even put enough distance between them to stick himself with a blood vial, and panic began to thrash in his chest as he could feel himself becoming more and more worn down.

A brutal backhand sent his blunderbuss flying, and a certain hopelessness had Djura driving the stake forward once more, praying to whatever strange creatures listened to such things that his attack would strike true. Nothing heeded his prayers, as the arm encased in the Stake Driver was caught by Gascoigne’s hand. The long, powerful fingers bent, strong enough somehow that the metal actually bent beneath the beast’s grip, groaning in his grasp. Crushing pain lanced through his forearm, and Djura tried to yank his arm free, feeling like he was tugging against a stone wall.

Gascoigne brought his other hand forward, ripping the stake off of the complex hand weapon, while his other continued to bend and warp the metal, heedless of the way his iron gripped snapped the bones beneath it. Heedless of the way the steel cut into Djura’s flesh, his skin mottling and bruising, the muscles feeling like mashed meat beneath the unrelenting hold. The hunter screamed wretchedly, his free hand clawing at the furred fingers wrapped around his forearm.

Would even the sacred blood of the church be able to heal whatever injury surely awaited him? Djura could feel his body shaking against his will. Abruptly, Gascoigne lifted him by the forearm, and this time he was carried into the air a few feet as the beast drew to his full height, pulling him with him. The gesture put agonizing pressure on his crushed arm, and he felt his shoulder straining as all his weight was put on the single joint, the ball of his arm threatening to pop free.

“Djura,” Gascoigne rumbled, and he didn’t even sound human anymore. Didn’t look human, as Djura opened his eye, sucked in quick, shallow breaths. The hair on his scalp, of his beard, stood out in bristles like a mane, and it appeared as though his mouth had been sliced open, all the way back to the hinge of his jaw. It was lined with mismatching and jagged fangs. The beast brought his free hand forward, and one with clawed finger ripped Djura’s mask free. The powder keg hunter’s face warped with distaste, and he watched as a revoltingly long and slick tongue lolled free from Gascoigne’s mouth, licking along the side of his face. The beast’s breath reeked of blood. “Old friend…”

“Yes! Yes!” Djura knew he sounded desperate, but he supposed he was. His mind clung to the spark of recognition that seemed to be stirring within the beast, of the human he once was – still was! “Gascoigne-” His words were cut off in a howl of pain as the beast tightened his grip on his mangled arm, before throwing him as though he were a rag doll.

There was a loud crunching sound around his ribcage as he collided with one of the aged tombstones. Djura’s vision swam, and he lay crumpled on the ground for a moment. His entire arm pounded with each heartbeat, felt like he had thrust it into the heart of a fire, and the metal wrapped around it made it feel heavy and tumorous as he struggled to regain his footing. He had been able to roust himself onto his elbows and knees – just barely – when the taloned feet of his former friend came into view. Djura hadn’t even heard him approach over the roar of blood and misery hammering in his skull.

A crushing grip was suddenly around the back of his head, fingers ending in sharp claws tangling in his hair as he was wrenched upwards, his spine arched. His injured arm hung limp, and his free hand trembled as he brought it up to tug pathetically at Gascoigne’s forearm. He flinched involuntarily as Gascoigne’s other hand came closer, but Djura could barely even shake in his grasp as the beast scratched at the cloth covering his empty eye socket.

As the ribbons of linen were sliced, falling away, Djura felt goosebumps prickle across his skin. There was some strange sense of anticipation within him, as though he was waiting for the beast to say more, but there were no more words forthcoming from that ravaged and disgusting mouth. Gascoigne brought two fingers to his damage eye, and Djura’s entire body convulsed with a retch as the beast suddenly thrust them inside. There was nothing inside to damage – not anymore, not for a long time – but he reacted mindlessly, and pain blossomed soon as dirty and ragged claws scraped at the back of his eye socket, gouging over ancient scar tissue. When Gascoigne removed his fingers, Djura could feel hot liquid bubbling over the limp remains of his bottom eyelid, running in a thick line down the side of his face.

His hand flew to his eye, palm pressing against the open wound, a nauseating sensation of déjà vu sweeping through him. The hand in his hair withdrew, and Djura stared at Gascoigne with one wide, unblinking eye before he was knocked roughly backwards, landing with a huff as the air was forced out of him. As though he enjoyed the stabs of pain and sickness touching Djura’s crushed arm caused the hunter, Gascoigne took hold of his forearm again, using it to fully pin him to the ground beneath his bulk. He could hardly keep his eye from rolling back in agony as the beast lumbered over top of him, sickly sweet breath ghosting over his face. 

Djura pressed his bloody hand against Gascoigne’s shoulder, trying to push the thing away, but the beast just wrapped his own hand around his wrist, and with a quick, easy squeeze had snapped the joint. The sounds pouring out of his mouth didn’t even register as belonging to him, as Gascoigne pressed his other arm to the ground, as the beast lowered his head to lick along his jawline, the column of his throat, opening his mouth suddenly and biting down along the slope that lead to his shoulder. Djura could feel his skin shredding like paper beneath those sharp fangs.

And he was distantly aware of something else, too. Gascoigne had maneuvered his lower body as well, and was thrusting against his front side. Djura shuddered, in fear and revulsion, feeling the hardness of the beast press into his pelvis as the creature ground against him. In a moment of surprising clarity, Gascoigne withdrew from him entirely. He couldn’t help but to hope that this was over, that his former partner had come finally to his senses, but it was doused almost immediately when those monstrous hands pulled his wrists together, manipulating the already warped metal into something akin to manacles. With frightening force, Gascoigne slammed the metal into the hard dirt, effectively binding Djura’s hands above his head.

Apparently satisfied that the hunter’s protests had been sufficiently quelled, Gascoigne’s hands traveled down Djura’s still clothed body, stopping only to roughly yank and rip away his pants. Somehow, it was more humiliating that the beast didn’t choose to fully undress him, but a cold lump settled in his stomach, distracted him as he realized the full ramifications of his situation. As he heard the sound of Gascoigne’s own clothing being ripped off carelessly, as the backs of his thighs were suddenly taken in a bruising grip, spread lewdly, and he could only imagine the sight he made, beaten and bloody and pathetic.

“W-Wait! Wait, please,” he said, gasping. To his surprise, Gascoigne stilled above him, but as though he were the mindless, slathering beast he appeared to be, his hips continued jutting forward, shoving against his perineum, once catching against his opening, the action making his body seize and jackknife. Gascoigne growled dangerously. Djura opened his mouth, licked his lips. If the beast took him now, he knew, he knew, gods, that he would be ripped apart. In this state, the creature wasn’t about to prepare him, and he somehow doubted either of them came with lubrication.

Which meant that his best bet was to at least get some form of liquid on it – namely, spit, saliva, and his pride wilted to even think of it, of what he was debasing himself to do. Gascoigne, the beast he had become, was still staring at him, and Djura squirmed and cleared his throat, willing the words to form.

“Please… let me.” Gods above and below, he couldn’t say it. His eye was clenched shut and his jaw grit, but they both flew open when the beast shoved at his entrance again and he keened. “Let me… my mouth. Gascoigne.” Saying his name seemed to have some sobering effect, Gascoigne falling still once more. Djura swallowed around a sudden lump in his throat. He wasn’t sure if he would be able to force himself to name his request more clearly, and the tension in his body was ratcheted up every moment that the beast didn’t move. 

A sigh of relief rushed out of his chest, past his lips, but it was short lived when Gascoigne finally began shuffling up his body. Now he was, literally, face to face with what he had to do – what he had asked for, the back of his mind whispered – a thick and engorged cock straining before him, rubbing against his lips. Djura closed his mouth tightly for a moment, resisting the flared head that pressed at him, but he forced his jaw to unclench, his mouth to open, his tongue to roll out and flick against the head, soon pinned to the bottom of his mouth as Gascoigne spared no time in roughly thrusting inside the slick, hot cavern.

He coughed noisily, body jerking as he gagged, as Gascoigne’s thick length rammed into the back of his throat roughly, thrusting in and out of his mouth in quick jerking motions without even a thought for his comfort or safety. There was a plummeting sensation somewhere in his stomach as Djura realized that not even half of the beast’s dick was slamming inside him, and he tried nearly in vain to recall old days when he had done this in better company, in more willing situations. Even trying to relax his throat, only a few more inches slipped between his lips, down his esophagus, and his body heaved every few thrusts, trying to retch around the foreign object battering his uvula. He could taste something salty on his tongue, some wetness that couldn’t be attributed solely to the drool that spilled over his lips, hung in sticky strands down his chin.

Abruptly, Gascoigne pulled out from his mouth, and Djura was absurdly aware of how swore, swollen his lips were, how his hands felt numb from where they were trapped so tightly in their metal cage. His breath came in exaggerated gasps, and he couldn’t help the way his eye fell to the beast’s cock, jutting out heavily from between furred thighs, so little of it glistening with the desperate form of lubrication Djura had practically begged for.

Unwilling to wait any longer, Gascoigne moved back down between his legs, his hands painting fresh bruises over the old marks against his thighs. Djura shuddered bodily, thought about pleading for mercy, protesting, fighting back, but found all his strength sapped. His weapons were scattered or rent; his body was battered and bleeding, mangled in the worst way. Perhaps this would go quickly, his shame would be ended swiftly, and he could crawl away in the aftermath to live to fight another night. 

He felt the damp head of Gascoigne’s cock press against him, and this time it didn’t stop at his body’s feeble resistance. Djura willed himself to relax, tried to think about times, so long ago, when he and his friend had engaged in similar activities. Back then, Gascoigne had been so careful, so gentle, rocking into him so sweetly that his body had unfurled like a flower to accept him. Now, the beast was just forcing himself inside, deeper and deeper, heedless of the tissue and muscle that rebuked him, of the delicate skin and linings that stretched and stretched and then tore.

It felt like he was being ripped open, and the beast stopped with barely more than the head of his cock buried deep inside him before withdrawing, before surging back forward, ramming just a bit more of his length into him. Djura grit his teeth but pathetic, breathy hiccups were forced from him with each thrust. More and more, until he was sure he couldn’t take any more inside him, and then even more, the beast’s movements becoming more fluid as he bled, lubricated his cock.

Finally, finally, Gascoigne was seated to the hilt within him, and he felt a surge of disgust rush through him at the feeling of furred hips pressing flush against him. The monster drew all the way out, earning a long moan from Djura as his cock slipped free briefly before he slammed his entire length back in, and from there he kept up a brutal pace, pounding the shaking, sobbing human in the ground. He pressed against the back of Djura’s thighs, almost folding the hunter in half as he fucked him, and drool slid out between his fangs, dribbled against Djura’s face as the monster howled in pleasure.

Everything had blurred together, pain in his backside, in his chest, in his arms, as the beast raped him, thrust into him over and over and over. But there was a sudden ferocity to Gascoigne’s movements, and with a few final, deep thrusts the beast had come deep inside him, fucking him through its orgasm, and Djura could only shiver, his face twisted with revulsion. Gascoigne pulled himself free almost immediately, and Djura felt a flood of hot liquid slid out from between his legs, down his thighs as his legs thumped to the ground, and he couldn’t tell the difference between blood and come.

Gascoigne – the beast, the monster, not his companion – moved away, stalking off into the distance. Djura could hear the wailing of beasts in the city, as the moon rose over the tops of trees and buildings alike. Nothing came to bother him where he lay, wilted in a puddle of mixed fluids, and he lay still for a long while, until the night was nigh halfway over. He was alerted to another’s presence as a quiet tapping sound against the cool stones of the graveyard, a feathered silhouette stepping into his view.

“Oh? And what else has been hunting the Hunters tonight, I wonder?” 

Djura’s eye rolled back in its socket, and his world faded to cool, comforting darkness.


End file.
